i remember when I drove back from cemetery around 11 pm (because the next day was a holiday and I couldn't really visit my grandmas grave earlier) and this guy was following my car. literally looked like a junkie with empty gaze, started running after my car and I speeded to lose him lol. its a very small town that I live in, so everyone knows everyone, and I asked my dad if he knows who this guy is; he didn't. he basically told me that no one like this lives here and I was pretty startled lol. especially that i never saw him again and he seemed like a hallucination
🧚♀️ favorite characters of all time
natasha romanoff, tony stark, steve rogers, rachel green, derek morgan, emily prentiss, haymitch, finnick!! forgetting a few for sure
🌝 a show you would recommend to anyone
spinning out. deffo, and maybe uhhh agents of shield? such an underrated show
I was never a fic writer and truth be told, I’d never really read much of it either. It wasn’t because I chose not to, I just hadn’t ventured into it quite yet.
But then I had an idea for a story….
It was about a girl who loved a boy next door, and she never stopped.
I’ve mentioned before that Bo is a great muse for many reasons—and I have to thank him. But there aren’t enough words, even in my wheelhouse, to express the gratitude that I have for all of you that’s taken the time out to read my work and for all the unforgettable comments and messages I’ve gotten since I started all of this….one whole year ago.
I wanted to let everyone know I’m “stepping away” for a bit. It’s temporary. And yes, I’ve cleared the stories from AO3. But that is also temporary. I’m sorry to do this in the middle of Down For You but I’m doing it for many, very important and incredibly necessary reasons. And one of those many reasons is to give Before The Act the chance that it has right now to move on to bigger things.
I was never a fic writer. But I sure as hell have always been a writer with a dream and I hope all of you can understand. Until later…
Here me out, ya’ll. I needed a break from, sweet. I’m in a mood, so I wrote some shit...
I sit in my car, dreading this interview. It’s only my second assignment since being hired at HB Magazine. The last one didn’t go well. I stuttered over my words, lost track of questions. It was shit. I flip my rearview mirror down, looking at my skirt suit. Recently purchased, after my sister insisted it would make me feel more confident.
Who are you kidding, you dumb bitch? There’s not an ounce of professional grace in your body. Try not to fuck this one up, too.
I cross the hotel lobby to the counter, not even letting the clerk get out her pleasantries before I hold my badge in her face.
“I’m here for the Bo Burnham interview.”
“Oh! Wonderful, that’ll be the 3rd floor. Room 307.” Her big, fake smile makes my stomach turn. “Are you excited?” She asks as I turn to leave.
I look over my shoulder, “No. Not a fan. He seems like a prick.
Her smile fades, and that makes me kind of happy. I make my way up to the third floor, taking deep breaths. Still having full anxiety from the colossal failure of the last one. I arrive at room 307 and tap on the door. At least half a minute goes by and nothing. I’m about to knock again, when the door opens. He immediately turns, retreating back into the room and I reach out to catch the door before it slams shut.
Nice to fucking meet you too, I guess.
I take a deep breath, trying to put on my fake, give a shit smile. My patience was up when I cracked my eyes open this morning.
“Thanks for meeting with me today,” I chirp, like a dumb little songbird.
Bo and his towering form, leans back against the hotel vanity, in front of the mirror, propped by the heels of his palms. His eyes are seemingly vacant, yet heavily annoyed as he presents a small table, with two chairs, near the bed.
I tug nervously at the bottom of my skirt as I take a seat. I can’t believe I bought this dumb suit. I look like a librarian and I didn’t take into account my black rimmed glasses.
“Okay,” I sigh, after getting my ipad set up to take notes. “I’ll make this quick.”
“But not quick enough,” he says flatly. I look up at him, as he flips his wrist to check his watch. He pushes his hair back and returns to his lean. Great, this guy is a real fucking treat.
“You having a bad day?” I ask annoyed, but I try to disguise it, as more of a playful banter.
His blue eyes, fall icily on mine.
“I’m having a bad decade. Is this an interview question?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.” This mother fucker, I swear. “ Okay, first question—After your success with Inside, are you planning on any more projects in the near future?”
He drops his head, rubbing his forehead forcefully with his palm.
“Fuckin, christ,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, tightly, not even trying to hide the irritation
He raises his head, dropping his arm limply to his side.
“Can anyone of you, come up with a better question? Like, fucking anything? I could leave a prerecorded series of answers based on the endless stream of bullshit questions I’ve been asked, and I swear to you. You’d have your whole interview, ready to fill out.”
I tap my stylus on the table, trying to decide how to approach this pompous, arrogant fool. I decide to go with unprofessional.
“You know? You’re really cocky for a comedian.”
A wicked smile stretches across his face, and I’d swear he’s kind of hot, if I didn’t want to kick him in the throat.
I continue.
“How about this question? Why are you such a fucking dick?”
“Why are you dressed, for a really bad porn?”He quickly, retorts.
I’ve had enough.
“Fuck you.” I grab my iPad and turn to leave.
“I’m down if you are,” he says after me.
I turn back around. He tilts his blonde head, in question. He’s actually being serious. I almost turn to leave, but then I realize, I’m probably going to get fired from this interview. I might as well relieve some stress.
“Fine,” I say. I toss my iPad on the TV stand, and slip out of my suit jacket.
He doesn’t skip a beat, as he strides up to me.
“Lose these,” he says, pulling my glasses off, and tossing them aside. He pulls my hair out of a tightly wound bun.
“But please, keep your impressive, blank, white t-shirt, on,” I snap.
He doesn’t even try to listen, as he starts working on the ridiculously, tiny pearl buttons on my white collared shirt. This little prick, is never getting in there.
“How do you work this shit?” He fusses, as he leans his face to mine.
“Don’t kiss me.” I nudge his chest.
He grins, “Who fucking made you like this?”
“Same question for you, let’s answer on three.”
His expression darkens, “ You know what, fuck it.” He pulls my arm with considerable force, leading me over to the vanity, in front of the mirror. “Bend,” he orders.
I press my palms into the fake grained surface. He towers behind me, yanking my pencil skirt up so hard, my feet rise, and fall to the floor, just as quickly, he snatches down my pink thong, where it settles, around my ankles. Now we’re getting somewhere.
My heart sinks as I pull my hand from Bo’s grasp and open the door for Eric. I’m not one for surprises and it’s exactly this kind of anxiety-ridden moment of questioning that’s led me to that conclusion.
Eric walks in without a moment’s hesitation as he usually does.
“Sorry to drop in on you guys so late. But since you and Camille are about to break the internet, I thought we should probably talk.” He breezes past Bo and I and settles into a typical lean against the vanity, tossing a medium-sized envelope onto its surface. When he looks up, he finally seems to read the room and our expressions. “Shit.” He sighs. “Okay—Bo? Because of your personal involvement with Emma, would you rather talk about this in private?” I shoot him an ‘are you fucking kidding me’, look. “I’m sorry Emma. You know the contract, and you know I legally have to ask him.” He follows me in looking back over to Bo whose head is down, his face hidden away by a spill of blonde hair.
“No,” he says quietly. After another moment he turns his head peering at me, although he speaks to Eric. “I want her to stay.
Chapter 11: (The Cheerleader) is posting this weekend. I’ve made the decision to leave some of the original teaser off to play it safe for Tumblr. This chapter will be EXPLICITLY ADULT CONTENT ONLY compared to things Ive posted before.....except maybe “Make it Quick.” So, if for any reason you read my stuff because you like to keep it light....you’ve been respectfully warned. lol.
Anyways...here it is :)
The city of Atlanta is practically shimmering in the light of late morning. Sitting on the floor by the window I look out over the skyline, feeling the tug of homesickness already because by this time tomorrow Bo and I will be in the air, halfway to the city of Angels. I turn my gaze back to the purple Tulips Bo gave me yesterday, where they sit on the floor in front of me in a half glass of water and I trace my fingers softly over the waxy surface of the petals. In a way, it feels like I’ve acquired a pet goldfish or something—because I’m suddenly worried about what I’m going to do with them before we leave for L.A. Obviously I can’t expect a glass of Tulips to survive the journey through the ATL airport, through customs, a nearly five-hour flight and certainly not the airport traffic at LAX.
“I didn’t think it was necessary to tell you, Eric.” The stress in Bo’s voice catches my attention and pulls my focus from the pending floral orphans. He paces the hotel room, chewing his nails like it’s his last meal. He’s been on the phone with Eric for nearly an hour now, after deciding to come clean about the arrangement between him and Camille. Why? Because the video that was released yesterday has sparked an all-out- WAR.
Camille’s die-hard fan base is coming after Bo and they’re carrying metaphorical pitchforks. Because of the nature of the footage, including her crying, and him practically yelling at her, the speculations have spun out of control across the media and the general public. They’re now accusing him of being abusive, toxic and the number one trending hashtag on Twitter today is #cancelburnham.
However—now more than ever—one thing is very clear. Camille might have a larger fan base. But Bo’s fans….are viciously loyal. They’ve launched a counter-attack against Camille and her followers based on how obvious it was that Bo didn’t want to be kissed. And this brings us to the next highest trending hashtag on Twitter today, #cancelmouthrape. Yeah— It’s a bit theatrical but it has a nice ring to it.
Only a few minutes later the call finally comes to an end and Bo chucks his cell, rather violently, onto the bed. It bounces like a stone skimming across a lake and crashes into the headboard. Bo sighs, resting his hands, fingers laced, on the top of his head. I’m trying to think of something comforting to say but I’m distracted by the sexy little section of tummy that shows anytime he lifts his arms.
“Are you just hanging out with those flowers right now?” Bo grins, eyeing the Tulips.
“They’re getting some sun,” I explain. He huffs a quiet laugh, dropping his arms back to his side. But when his smile fades he looks purely defeated. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course,” he says, with a shrug. “This shit sucks but it’s not ruining my day.” He saunters over and lowers to the floor by my side. And while he gazes out over the city, I can’t help but to gaze at him. His hair and all of its sweeping, tapered glory is laying unusually perfect today and the sun hitting his bright, salmon color tee-shirt, casts a glow over his face causing the contrasting blue of his eyes to appear unnaturally vivid.
I’ve admired a lot of gorgeous guys in my life and in a slightly shallow way I’ve always had a sense of pride in the fact that I get plenty of attention from, and have dated, nothing but exceptionally pretty men. But there’s something about Bo that strikes differently. I don’t just admire his looks—I’m transfixed by them. Sometimes it's so overwhelming it causes an ache in my chest or even frustrates me in some weird way. Like when he slightly tilts his head back and flashes that airy smile. Or how sometimes when he’s in deep thought, he tosses his head to the side, lowers his gaze, and shadows play in the pools under his set deep-set eyes. I could go on and on but the point is—he’s beautiful to me in a way I don’t think I could ever burn through or grow tired of.
Eventually, I manage to join him in the fixed gaze over the city and I lay my head on his shoulder. And for a while, we sit quietly, just appreciating the view and the dwindling time we have left here in the heart of the Peach State.
Several hours have passed and I’ve spent a majority of that time getting dressed for our dinner date tonight. I’m not usually the type that spends an excessive amount of time getting ready to go out, but today, I decided to take my time, for once.
“We gotta leave in a few, babe,” Bo says, from outside the bathroom door.
“Be out in a sec,” I reply, not able to control the smile forcing its way onto my lips. He’s only called me that a couple of times, but I’ve learned that it turns me into a gushing middle schooler, trying to hold down a squeal.
I give myself a last glance over in the mirror and I’m feeling pretty damn good about it. As I pull the dark loose waves of my nearly waist-length hair over the front of my shoulders, I make a mental note to put more effort into doing my makeup like I did tonight because it’s pretty flawless and apparently If I take my time, I can successfully apply winged eyeliner. But none of it excites me more than finally getting to break in my gorgeous, sparkly, little black dress that perfectly shows off my shoulders, collar bones and somehow makes my legs look like they go on for days.
Finally ready, I start out of the bathroom but stop dead in my tracks—when I get an eye full of him—in all his towering beauty, leaning coolly back against the glass, one ankle crossed casually over the other. I take a quick moment to drink him in, while his eyes are down and he’s still unaware that I’m technically in the room. The city sparkling like a backdrop behind him only adds to how sickly stunning he looks in a fitted charcoal blazer over a white collard button-down and his hands are tucked in the pockets of his dark denim dress pants until he lifts one to check his watch.
In this moment I swear to god, I don’t care anymore about going out, because I’d rather stay in this room and give him a list of all the dirty shit I just imagined him doing to me.
I quickly resume my entrance into the room as he lowers his watch, sweeps his hair back, and his eyes land on me. Bo’s standing here looking like a model in one of those cinematic cologne commercials and his eyes are tracing over my body in a way that mothers warn their daughters about. Although In my case, it was my father.
I’m suddenly wracked with an overwhelming feeling I can’t identify and I can literally feel my brain turning stupid.
“S-s- sorry I - took forever,” I stammer. Am I having a fucking stroke right now?
“Worth the wait,” he says quietly as his eyes return to mine.
I quickly look away, slipping on my heels, laid out on the foot of the bed, because I just now realize what the feeling is. The feeling I’m currently drowning in at this very moment. I didn’t recognize it before, because I’ve never actually experienced being painfully shy. Especially with Bo. But here I am right now, under his gaze, feeling like some innocent little lamb of a girl, naïve and untouched— and the only thing I can come up with to make sense of it, is the simple fact that regardless of how insanely sexy I’ve always found him, he was still just that obnoxious kid I had a crush on and it grew into more. And until tonight, I haven’t once actually seen the man he’s grown into. And he has.
Suddenly, at the most inconvenient moment, I’m starting to piece together the brilliant level of perception that Bo possesses. Because It’s only now that I’m able to read between the lines of what he’s been saying this whole time, especially since he said what he did at the aquarium and when he found my cheerleader uniform and quickly changed directions. Reluctantly putting it in the Escalade only upon my request, with zero intentions to act on his original plan for it. Because he knows exactly how I’ve seen him this whole time, and he’s afraid to ruin that image that he so clearly knows I have of him.
He’s only recently found the ability to filter a large portion of his behavior. He told me that himself in the form of “There’s parts of me that I don’t recognize anymore… I’m a fucking asshole…” and of course, “You’ve only had sex with the version of me that loves you.”
And that’s just it-- I’m feeling like this right now because the way he just looked at me, is genuinely a part of Bo that’s a stranger to me. He slipped—and he doesn’t even realize it. But there’s nothing about it that’s ruining his image.
And now, I have a shark-eyed, laser focus on one thing—and one thing only. After tonight—once we get to L.A—I’m going to know that stranger. I’m going to know him in every way. There’s no other option available for him
With that plan, now set in stone, I relax. Tonight I’m just going to enjoy my date and whatever he wants to do after….I’m so fucking down for it.
It’s not Brett’s rapey advances, or Bo’s nearly lethal, shark-eyed version of “Handling it,” that rises to the surface of my thoughts. It should be, but sometimes, I’m just like a lot of other girls, so instead, my thoughts revisit the jealousy I have over Camille. Especially during and after dinner. Because honestly, what kind of bull shit luck do I have? Girls fall in love with boys every day, and most of those girls, have that one other girl they worry about. But when I fall in love with a boy, I have Hollywood’s, impossibly gorgeous, number one starlet, finger fucking his hair while I poke at the boiled quail egg, garnishing my salad.
